


Out of Touch

by gubby



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: 80's AU, Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Cunnilingus, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Fluff, Kinda, Love Confessions, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Reader-Insert, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, happy end, reader is a little tipsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:54:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22201414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gubby/pseuds/gubby
Summary: With some liquid courage, you finally decide to tell Arthur how you feel. 80′s AU.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 76





	Out of Touch

Liquid sloshed in your mouth, and you barely had the wherewithal to swallow it instead of letting it flow down your chin as you swayed. This party was fierce, but the liquor was fiercer. Your breath was probably acrid by now, a grim portent to your future in the bathroom. Neon lights beat down on the crowd and illuminated choice slivers of their writhing bodies. The growl of synth and bass was invasive in a way that felt enlightening. Like the vibrations were showing you the truth. 

Not an outrageous idea, coming from someone who’d had a few too many fruity drinks instead of dancing, sulking while watching someone else sulk. You could spy Arthur from across the room, settled into a sticky couch despite having gotten numerous offers to dance, with implications of much more. His tropical shirt was a sharp contrast to the bags beneath his blue eyes, unbuttoned to his comfort and showing off some chest hair. His hair was wild with stress. The look screamed _I’d love to be on vacation right now, but my circumstances have made this impossible_ . You could tell he stayed out of some sick obligation to the people who had told him to loosen up and have fun, other members of your shared _enterprise_. You stayed for him. 

Another swig of tequila sunrise put you over the edge, imbuing you with either courage or foolishness. Or perhaps, honesty. The walk across the room was in slow motion, you could feel your heels clacking against the floor, your arms impassively maneuvering out of the anonymous grasps of the mass of people. You could see from the corner of your eye as Arthur’s gaze flicked to you, but just as quickly moved again. He was trying to give you an out. Pretending not to see you so you could take the chance, come to your senses, go have fun with someone else. Someone better. Too bad you’re too wasted to be able to think of someone else. 

The way you fall onto the couch, spineless and heavy, is far from graceful. You put a hand to your face to begin combing the hair out of your eyes and Arthur can no longer hide being so utterly transfixed by you. Even when you’re sweating vodka and strawberry syrup, half illuminated by burning neon lights, he can’t help but rake his eyes over your entire form, trying to memorize it. He’d rather die than be caught trying to draw you or take a Polaroid. He’d feel like even more of a creep than he already does, but for some reason he’s convinced himself that just _looking_ isn’t as bad. 

A calloused hand cautiously claps the back of your shoulder instinctually. 

“Y’alright there, tiger? Have a lil’ too much?” The tenderness oozes from his voice even when he’s attempting to be joking. He’s nicer than even _he_ knows. 

“I’m— I’m ok. Just working up some nerve… I guess,” you garble out, unknowingly making his stomach sink like a rock. 

“Who’s the lucky one?”

“What?”

“The lucky, uh, person. The one yer gonna… ask for a dance from?”

“Jesus, Arthur, what is this— a highschool dance? From the fifties? Nevermind, don’t answer that.” _Great job. You’re really winning him over with that one_. 

“... You want me to take ya home?” Arthur would not be nearly as cute if he was a mind reader. But sometimes you wish he was. But it’s nice to know that you’re bombing this _and_ not looking so good. 

“No, no. If I don’t say this now, it’s not gonna happen,” you take advantage of the hand on your shoulder and move in, leaning towards him with your arms slung across each other. Not your most romantic move, but that ship sailed with your sobriety. 

“I like you Arthur. I know you think you’re some unlovable old man, past his prime and destined to be alone, but you’re not,” geez, you’re a brutal drunk. “You’re the best man I know, and I’ve met plenty. You’re nice to me, to everyone, but it’s not just common decency, y’know? Even when I’m looking like I’m about to vomit my soul, you’d drive me home, _and I know how much you love that car_. Even when I couldn’t give a damn about myself you’re always watching, making sure I don’t trip and fall. You’re handsome and gorgeous, and so comfy to be with. I got it bad for you. And I don’t expect you to say nothin’ about it, I know you’ve been hurt before and I’m not exactly looking like Miss America right now, but I had to tell you.”

As expected, he’s stunned into silence. Like the whole world has turned off. There’s no music, no crowd, just you and him on this sweaty leather couch breathing alcohol into each other’s faces. His first instinct is to refuse you, like every other good thing that comes his way these days. But you know him, and he knows you. The selfless and self deprecating excuses to keep himself alone and in misery can’t work forever. And he’s been out with you enough to know you’re an honest drunk. Those kinda feelings can’t be faked. Not like that. Not by you. 

But Arthur is still Arthur. He wouldn’t want you to do something you’d regret. So he cradles your cheek with his palm and watches your eyelids flutter as you lean into it, hope and anticipation stinging your eyes. His lips ghost over yours before making full contact, always giving you that window of opportunity, to stop him and turn him away, to take it all back. 

But you don’t. And the relief is almost enough to make him cry. 

Your free hand moves up, tracing the color of his shirt before sliding the tips of your painted nails over the hairs on the back of his neck, feeling the shiver that wracks his spine at the intimacy— something he hasn’t known for a long time. 

His kiss is chaste. A closed mouth, not daring to try anything else, but he doesn’t have to. You can almost feel the blood beneath the skin of his lips. He parts from you, opening his eyes to reveal a joy that Arthur doesn’t usually allow himself. The slight draw of his brows revealing that he still isn’t 100% certain this moment won’t end without rejection. 

Arthur Morgan is not a man who prides himself on self reflection. He’s not a man who’s often encouraged to improve, or to change. When you’re hired muscle, just coming back alive is enough. But for once, he wants to change. You inspire him to change. So for once, he’ll take a page out of your book, and ride this feeling instead of dreading an assumed shattering of the illusion. 

“I’d still like to take ya home, sweetheart, if that’s alright with you.”

* * *

Arthur’s apartment was surprisingly quiet for being above a club. It still had that hum from the muffled music, but it was more relaxing than annoying. He hadn’t been all over you when he walked you up, but he fumbled with his keys like he was. Sat on his bed, your face in his hands, he kissed you more desperately, like a man starved. It felt so dreamlike. You had to summon the will to pull away. 

“Arthur. Tell me how you feel about me.” 

Arthur was by no means an inarticulate man, if his journal entries were anything to go by. But he was a man of action, one not used to being asked to share his thoughts and feelings. But silence wasn’t how you operated. 

“I… I think I love you. You make me wanna be a better man, angel. You don’t look at me like a source of favors. You look at me like… like I matter. And hell, I’m startin’ to believe it.”

He grabs your chin. His thumb traces over the soft edge of your lower lip. His eyes are avoiding yours in an attempt to compose his thoughts. 

But he spoke the words before even really thinking. 

“It’s like you don’t just want me to love you. You want _me_ to feel loved.”

“Bingo.” God you feel like such a seductive genius. And apparently you’re right to feel that way, because Arthur’s grip on your body only becomes tighter as he presses kiss after kiss, trailing down your neck. In the meantime, your hands mindlessly work at the buttons of his shirt, and he’s too busy showing his affection to feel self conscious. 

He parts from you, sliding the shirt from his back with a facade of confidence before moving his fingers to the hem of your own, looking to your eyes for silent permission before lifting. The way you shake your hair out as you finish pulling it off enraptures him. Despite, or maybe _because_ of, your smeared makeup and the way you grimace as the collar catches on your nose, he thinks you look gorgeous. Your hair crests your head like a halo for a perfect moment, you look like a goddamned album cover. Arthur’s sure to file all this inspiration away for later. 

“I can’t believe you— way too cute to be real,” he coos quietly, bringing his hands to the base of your ribs, flushing your skin with their heat, sliding them upwards. His thumbs graze your nipples before finding confidence in their movement, making you keen in a way you _might_ have been able to suppress if you were stone cold sober. Arthur’s eyes flick up to your heated face with a sudden look of predation— like he’s a lion and you’re a wounded gazelle. 

Funny, you’ve never seen a lion fuck a gazelle on nature documentaries. But right now it doesn’t seem all that unlikely. 

Arthur doesn’t feel any of the confidence he exudes. _He_ feels like a teenager who’s just seen his first pair of tits in a playboy magazine he stole from under his older brother’s mattress. His practiced hands undo your shorts, smoothly sliding them down before you kick them the rest of the way off. He undoes his belt almost with panic, like if he delays any longer you’re gonna get fed up and leave. 

The both of you are in your underwear, and it feels like hours have passed since you stepped through the threshold of Arthur’s apartment, but at the same time like no time has passed at all. 

“Even when yer wasted, you can’t help lookin’ so pretty, can ya?” 

“Says the man who hasn’t shaved or combed his hair in two days, but still looks like a Hollywood Star in a western,” you tease, sticking your tongue out to punctuate it. 

“Think I’d make a good Blondie?”

“Oh _please._ Clint Eastwood _wishes_ he had as much personality.” You did it again. It was like you could trick him into loving himself a little more everyday, without even trying. It makes him chuckle, and you cock your head, not thinking it was _that_ funny.

Feeling emboldened, Arthur lightly pushes the tips of his fingers against your collar bones, urging you to lie back so he can take his sweet time getting to know your body. You comply, a little giddy and almost doll-like, as he manhandles you slightly. He sinks his fingers into the soft flesh of your thighs and delights in the sensation while spreading them, staring in reverie at your vulnerable body, as well as the wet spot forming on your panties. He leans over you while his hand does a broad swipe over the clothed lips of your pussy, and you shudder a little from the stimulus. 

Arthur leans back to take a good look while he moves the bridge of your underwear to the side, using his other hand to stroke and spread your intimate parts playfully. He pulls the elastic past the expanse of your legs, leaving you completely exposed. Not to say that Arthur himself is completely modest in his briefs— you can see the outline of his hard cock and a spot of wetness where it’s already dribbling pre-cum. He had been drinking as well, but clearly it hadn’t held him back. Before you know it he’s got your legs pinned back and his face in your crotch, pressing kisses to your mound before diving in with his tongue, worming it into you. In the middle of giving you the lickout of your life, he parts with a hard suck to your clit, face red and breathing heavy just as you are. 

“Maybe I, uh— I shoulda asked first. Sorry, darlin’, it’s just, lookin’ like you do… you could drive a man crazy.” _And in fact, you just might,_ he thinks. You throw an eye roll and a lazy, lidded gaze his way. 

“Fella, if I look like a lady who’s gonna complain about getting her pussy _ate_ , you got the wrong impression. I’m not gonna get in the way of _art_ ,” you trail off, flicking your gaze south, “but I do wanna see you.”

This is usually the part where Arthur would bite back with a _no, you really don’t_ . But the way you said it was just so… sweet. And juxtaposed against the downright _filthy_ thing you’d just said, he couldn’t help but be charmed, and believe you. 

Thought not exactly uncharacteristically, Arthur slid his briefs down silently, like he was waiting for you to say something first. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed, thick and slightly veined. It was in moments like these that it really hit you how truly and honestly Arthur didn’t see what there was to love about _him_ . Here he kneels, between your legs, with his solid build and girthy dick, strong jaw and mana blue eyes, having just licked your _soul_ out of your body _unprompted_ , and he’s still nervous. About what, that his dick is small? He must have been in enough public bathrooms by now to know that isn’t true. You take it upon yourself to reassure him. 

You reach down between your legs to stroke his length, trying to seem appreciative, because you are. _Thank you Arthur’s parents, and thank you God, for giving this man such a perfect dick_. You’re hoping to telekinetically express this feeling to Arthur, as there’s no way in hell you’d ever say that out loud, drunk or not. Between the light drag of of your nails, gentle as can be, and your focused, starry eyes, he kinda gets what you’re trying to convey. Your paramour delicately slides your hand from him, lacing his fingers with yours and pinning your arm back to the bed. 

“Not that I don’t like bein’ in your grasp, baby, but I can think of somewhere _else_ I’d rather be. I think you and I have waited long enough, don’tcha think?” He rumbles, almost possessed by the seductive heartbreaker persona he had in his youth. Arthur can deny it all he likes, but past a certain point, charm comes naturally to him. You take in a deep breath and steel your resolve. 

“I’m ready, Arthur. I want you.” Six words he could live on. Even if it all ended now, if you suddenly rejected him and tried to forget this ever happened, just the memory those six words could sustain him. For a time, anyway. 

He frotted against you, gathering your slick on his cock before using his unoccupied hand to prod the warm, velvety head at your entrance. He leaned down to give you a lingering kiss before continuing eye contact and gently pushing his hips forward. After a short time and a bit of stretch, his head suddenly popped its way inside, making you gasp and squeeze Arthur’s hand. He watched you carefully for any sign of pain before continuing on, letting out a low groan when you’d finally taken him all the way to the base. He angled your hips up, and you could feel his pelvis against your clit as he started shallowly thrusting. He grunted and knitted his brows together a little before cracking a smile for you. 

“Tight, _real_ tight... Relax a little sweetheart, let me in,” you were so hyper focused on Arthur, you hadn’t realized how tense you were. You did a deep exhale, attempting to relax more, and Arthur seemed relieved, and you shot him an apologetic smile. “Not that it don’t feel good honey, but I don’t want this to be over before it’s even begun, y’know?” he glanced to the side, bashful, but not ashamed. 

His thrusts became deeper, and gradually picked up until you were getting _pounded_ . With the steady slap of his balls against your ass, the wet sound from where the two of you were joined, and the repeated moans of _Arthur_ and _oh god_ and _fuck AH!_ coming from you, you felt like this must look like some cheap, cliché porno. Arthur growled and purred against you like a beast in a rut, alternating between attacking your neck with lips and teeth, and worshipping your face with less than coordinated kisses. You wrenched your eyes open to catch his gaze. 

“Does it feel good?” You asked nervously, unusually lacking in confidence. Or maybe you just wanted to play virgin for him, seeing as he made you feel like one. Meanwhile the depth of your compassion and concern for his enjoyment nearly made Arthur blow his load right then and there. 

“ _Good_ ?” He huffs out, “baby, you got no _idea_. Incredible, more like. Like yer pussy was made for me.” Arthur wasn’t particularly thinking about what he was saying. Then again, he never really did with you. That was part of what made loving you so easy— it just came naturally to him. 

Your lover’s hips began to stutter more and more as the both of you neared breathlessness, his free hand dipping down to put the rough pad of his thumb against your clit while he stole a glance at where the two of your were connected. 

“You close, darlin’? I am.”

“Oh god— _yes_ , Arthur,” you gasped. 

“Then cum for me. Cum with me.”

The kiss you two shared in that moment would be one to rival the final pages of the Princess Bride in terms of pure love and passion. What an idea for roleplay that would be, huh? With your fluttering walls stroking his cock, Arthur came tumbling with you in ecstasy. His hips were completely and instinctually flush to yours, you’d never felt so _full_ and _warm_ in your life. 

Arthur heaved himself, sweaty and out of breath, off of you to lay at your side and stick to the sheets. For once, he didn’t even consider lighting a cigarette. He wouldn’t dare do anything to distract himself from your complete and total company in that moment. Slowed by liquor and sex, you could already feel yourself drifting off, and it didn’t escape your bedmate, who just sheepishly recalled how much you’d drank and felt a pang of guilt in the back of his head. But that was a problem for _tomorrow_ Arthur, not _tonight_ Arthur. _Tonight_ Arthur just pulled the sheets of his bed up over you before begrudgingly getting out of bed, and coming back with a wet towel and a glass of water. The water was placed gently on the nightstand on your side of the bed, the towel used to clean the both of you. Luckily you had been sleepy and pliable enough not to fuss over the cold of the wet towel, but you did scrunch your nose and pout adorably. 

Arthur, laying on his side and facing you, held your face and kissed your forehead before looking at your eyes, blinking slowly, your eyes spending more time closed than open. 

“You better not forget this tomorrow morning, y’hear?”

“If I do, remind me?”

Arthur could live with that. 


End file.
